Blind Eyes Opened
by flipfloppandas
Summary: Yasai never thought he'd end up in a place like this. A new family that wasn't really his, and a life that did not belong to him. His body has healed, but his mind hasn't, and he is still scared. Of what, he isn't sure. But this is a fear he is not sure he can let go of. Especially not with the lingering thoughts that he still isn't safe. Not yet, not ever... SEQUEL to BWTB
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon ball Z or any of the character's except for my OC's

Summary: _Yasai never thought he'd end up in a place like this. A new family that wasn't really his, and a life that did not belong to him. His body has healed, but his mind hasn't, and he is still scared. Of what, he isn't sure. But this is a fear he is not sure he can let go of. Especially not with the lingering thoughts that he still isn't safe. Not yet, not ever... Sequel to BWTB  
><em>

Warning:_ Rated M for language, abuse, rape, mpreg, etc._

Yay, I'm so excited to get this out! Now I don't really have much a plan for how this is going to go, because I am not sure how exactly to write hurt/comfort type stuff. I am excited to start this, as I can't wait to continue my journey with this universe!

So as of right now, I have this story planned to go in a Vegeta/Goku direction. I've got some people who requested of this, and I actually wouldn't mind taking this fanfiction in that direction. That obviously won't be the main focus, but there will definitely be hints, or possibly full out romance if I think it fits into my story.

ALSO, the "nameless man" from chapter 15 of BWTB, is NOT an OC. Aricot is (and I absolutely adore him!) but that is it. I'll let you guys ponder that information :)

Blind Eyes Opened

**Chapter one:**

"Breaking news!" a feminine voice blared from the television, "three sixteen year olds, Eleanora White, Caleb Smith, and Justin Williams were found over 4,000 miles from their Australian homes in Satan City police station, after being pronounced missing nearly four days ago, on November 11th. The teenagers were last seen near Bondi Beach, Australia, before their disappearance. I have spoken with the three teenagers, who all claim to have been _kidnapped_ by—"

Vegeta clicked the off switch on the remote control, being careful not to use too much strength and crush the device. He was not quite sure _why_ he was even watching the television; it had never been that interesting to him. The only times he ever watched it was when he was relaxing after finishing a work out, and Trunks was watching some strange—American, he learned. Trunks was sure to tell him that there was nothing wrong with the Japanese ones, but between three o clock and five, the Americans had the, quoted "best freaking shows on!"—animated atrocity (most of them including a talking yellow rectangle—to which he learned was supposed to be a sea sponge—or life-sized crime fighting turtles, and one that had involved a talking snake and a boy who seemed to think everything involving _butts_ was funny, to which Vegeta quickly proclaimed that Trunks was never allowed to watch again), or when Bulma forced him to watch "dramatic" shows (General Hospital, but nowhere in the episode he watched did it involve a hospital) or "romantic comedies" (the ones he had watched were always focused on some strange sexual situation, and were so corny, he could not even remember one scene to be able to individually describe them) with her at night, which were so boring that he actually would prefer sitting through the cartoon with the turtles. Or perhaps the one with the children who could manipulate the four elements to do their bidding. Unrealistic, but still intriguing.

Vegeta scrubbed his hands over his face, annoyed that he was thinking so in-depth about a human television, and seriously referring to a children's show as _intriguing_.

His vision was blurred when he pulled his hands away, and he blinked a couple of times to refocus them. He huffed a breath through his nose, and looked out the window. It was bright out, and tiny flakes of white were falling from the sky, but seemed to melt before they even made it to the grass. He was surprised he did not see Trunks outside, playing in the strange Earth weather; snow, it was called. No such thing existed on his home planet, the climate was far too warm for that. Not that he remembered much of it.

He leaned his head back on the couch, and closed his eyes. He was alone in the living room, but he could still hear Bunny bounding around in the kitchen, humming a tune in her ditzy head as she cooked up lunch.

He debated heading down to the GR to train, but he had just come back from a work-out session not twenty minutes ago, and he was not in the mood to have Bulma berate him again for "training all the damn day, and never spending time with her and their son (now sons)". Besides, he was in the process of lowering his hours spent training. While it made him a bit restless, he figured he was handling the sudden withdrawal quite well.

Perhaps he would go and see his eldest son. Vegeta had spent quite some time in that beige hospital room, in the burgundy same chair just a few feet from the metal-barred, occupied bed. He was there quite unnecessarily; most of the time the boy was asleep (seemed more like he was unconscious from how hard he slept), or either being so completely surrounded by doctors that he did not even notice Vegeta was there. Not that they ever spoke to each other. If Vegeta ever attempted conversation, it was always one-sided, so he simply did not speak unless necessary. He did not mind the silence. If it was not to ridicule someone, or gloat about himself, he was not all that talkative.

Despite their quiet visits, he did not like to leave his son. He tried to think rationally, and decided that the time he wasted by the sick boy's beside, could be used for more productive things, like spending time with his youngest—did you know that Trunks dislikes animals just as much as his father? Vegeta hadn't until yesterday when a dog from Mrs. Brief's "animal farm" (as Vegeta so eloquently referred to it as) had tried to lick him, and the boy batted it away in annoyance—, or Bulma—sex—, or even training for an hour or so with Kakarot—they never actually _train _per se, but Vegeta did get a punch or six in when the younger man annoyed him enough (... which was quite often...). Even with all these new added options to his daily life, he still found time to sit with beside his eldest. Even a couple of times when he was awake.

The boy was improving remarkably. The doctors, despite being informed of his alien heritage, were still baffled by his rapid recovery. He had only been home for just over a week, and was already putting on weight, breathing on his own, requiring less and less painkillers and other drugs, and they predicted they may be able to remove his casts in another week or so. It was quite indefinite when the boy would be able to walk again, but the doctors were quite confident that he would, and that it would be soon. It was quite a wonder how he could all of a sudden be doing so well, when he was doing so poorly before.

His first day or so had been quite unsettling, given that he had gone into cardiac arrest almost twice. He had seizures quite frequently, nothing life-threatening, but still frightening all the same. He would vomit blood and black fluid (the only things he could vomit, because there was _nothing_ else in there). He was completely filled with disease (it would be much easier to describe which diseases he _didn't_ have): pneumonia, genital herpes, tuberculosis, gastritis (Vegeta didn't even know what the hell that _was_), gonorrhea, malaria, multiple viruses: including Ebola, hepatitis, rabies... the list was endless. Thankfully, nearly half of those things were either completely cured, or close to being. The boy _was_ truly astounding. Then again, the boy was a of saiyan blood, Vegeta expected nothing less.

Yes, he would go and see his son.

But first, he would eat, because it was past noon, and the meats that Mrs. Brief was cooking smelled quite delectable.

* * *

><p>Red eyes blinked open, only to close again in irritation from the bright light. He slowly opened his eyes again, and stared up at the blurred bright ceiling. He no longer had the disoriented confusion of wondering where he was, because he had been waking up to the same crème ceiling with brown dots and tiny cracks for quite some time now. He woke up calmly, which surprised even him, given the shakiness he normally felt when arising himself from sleep. It seemed like he should be MUCH worse, taking in account of the place he <em>was<em> waking up in. It really was a wonder that he was keeping a handle on himself (when he was awake, it did not always go so smoothly), except for a few days ago. It wasn't really his fault in his opinion. He _had_ in fact woken up to a _weapon_ (which he was later told was called a _syringe_). It was only simple instinct that he screamed and thrashed, which had in turn caused the IV tubes to rip clean from his body.

After his "episode", his once-white bed sheets soiled with urine and blood were changed, and he was restrained to his bed.

Aside from that, he had woken up quite peacefully. He didn't have nightmares, actually, he didn't dream much at all. He simply went to sleep—quite frequently in fact—and woke up to the familiar crème ceiling with brown dots and tiny cracks. He would lie there very still for quite some time, staring up the ceiling, memorizing the dot patterns (which wasn't really a pattern, he learned), trying his best to ignore the strangers that meddled with his body, which was _very_ hard. For some unknown reason, he really did not have much a choice against fighting them. Aside from being restrained, he did not have the strength to move. He did not know why this was, and he did not like it. Vegeta often assured him that it was only the so-called "drugs" that they forced into his body, but that did not make him feel any better. If anything, that made him feel _worse_. He had always been vulnerable, had always been weak, but at least he had the opportunity to struggle if he so wanted. That choice was no longer welcome here.

Occasionally the strangers would ask him questions ("Can you feel this?" "Does this hurt?"), to which he would sometimes nod, or shake his head 'no'. Most of the time he would act as if he could not hear them, and would only stare up at the crème ceiling with brown dots and tiny cracks, the stranger's shadowed bodies looming over him in his peripheral vision. They often wore long dark-tinted white robes, or deep mint green pants and shirts. Their heads were covered by tight blue caps, and the place where their mouths and noses should be was hidden by white or blue masks. Their bodies blocked out the lighting source, giving their large bodies a shadowed, ominous effect. Or perhaps that was all in his head. It did not matter; how could anyone possibly feel safe around these strangers with only half of their faces and the sharp weapons they prodded his body with? The strangers were not always there though, and the solitude was what he enjoyed the most.

It was quite strange really, that he enjoyed being alone, when he always _hated_ it before. Sure, he liked to be _left_ alone (who wanted to be punished all the time?), but being _alone_ was a completely different situation entirely. Then again, things were a completely different situation now as well.

When was by himself (truly _by_ himself, the few moments when not even _Vegeta_ was there), there was quiet, only the sounds of his erratic breathing (they had officially gotten rid of the oxygen mask with the bird he learned was called "penguin" printed on it just a few days ago) and the beeps of the machines around him permeated the room. That, actually, was another contradiction in itself. He hated, and loved noise, but that wasn't a really new, he had always been that way. Loud noises he did not enjoy. He hated how the volume would ring in his ears (similar to the way _screaming_ does), but the silence, well, that made him feel alone, and as of right now he was on the fence about whether he liked that or not. Little noises though, like the rhythmic beeping of the machine beside him was soothing, and made him feel a little less alone than he really was.

During these times, when he was by himself, he would stare up at the ceiling. It didn't seem like that much of a difference (considering he did this all the time anyway), but it felt like it was to him. He could stare up at the ceiling without his heart pumping painfully from the fear he always experienced when he was breaking a rule. The doctors never seemed to care. They barely looked at them, only when they were making eye contact to ask him questions, and other times when they used a black instrument to shine a bright light into them (which always causes his heart to pound and a line of sweat to form on his forehead, as if they were looking for the evil that must be embedded in them somewhere). He knew that he was allowed to open his eyes, and that Vegeta claimed there really was nothing wrong with them, but old habits die hard, and he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to open his eyes around other people without _some_ sort of discomfort.

But when he was all by himself, the anxiety that always seemed to lick at the back of his subconscious was gone, and he was able to look freely up at the ceiling. It was a nice past time really. Studying the crème ceiling with brown dots and tiny cracks, which seemed to change shades depending on the lighting of the room. It busied his mind, and helped him ignore the pain he felt.

The pain—or more discomfort—annoyed him immensely. It was not as bad as he figured it could be, probably because of the strange fluids they pumped into his body, but it still annoyed him nonetheless. His muscles ached, his feet tinged with a slight burn, and his bottom was sore from constantly lying in the same position. Normally he could have quite literally _walked_ off his discomfort, but Vegeta had explained to him that he had to remain in bed—not that he had a choice, he was tied to it—which only intensified his discomfort and made him restless. He had no choice but to lie there and stare at the ceiling or sleep.

They would not even let him use the bathroom! Not that he particularly needed to, which was probably because of the needle that was inserted into penis (which had hurt like _hell_ when it was dislodged during his "episode"). If he strained his eyes enough, he was able to indulge in his weird fascination of watching the bright yellow liquid—it had been a very dark yellow when he first arrived—travel through the clear tube, before it disappeared into the bag that was taped to the foot of his bed, only knowing that it existed from watching the strangers replace the clear flimsy container once it became full.

He huffed with boredom. He wanted to eat. He had not eaten a thing since he was on the other planet, and the "_doctors_" (strangers) would not feed him. He was not necessarily hungry though, surprisingly. He had once overheard a white-haired, wrinkly man telling Vegeta something about his stomach being too weak to sustain food, and nutrient-filled IV tubes, and something about an internal rupture, but he did not understand much of it, and he did not quite frankly care. All he knew was that he missed _food_. He wanted something to put in his mouth, to feel the mushy chewed-up texture slide down his throat, and settle in his belly. Again, that was making him dreadfully restless.

Despite his pain and hunger and restlessness, he oddly felt... better.

It was strange really. The pains that normally coursed his body was either numb, or non-existent. He was always tired, but never so tired that his head would hurt and his eyes would burn. His muscles did not hurt, just felt numb, possibly a little strained. His throat hurt, but not terribly so, more along the lines of a common cold. He no longer felt the irritation of dehydration, as his tongue was never dry, and his lips were no longer chapped and brittle. His ears no longer burned and pounded, and his nose no longer was stuffed—his nose still ran, but it was mostly mucus—not that he could breathe through it yet, considering the tubes that were lodged in there. While his vision was blurry, his eyes did not sting.

In the back of his mind, he heard the pattering of feet against the hard flooring. It wasn't near enough that he could tell the direction it was approaching from, but he closed his eyes anyway. He evened his breath, and forced his eyes to remain still underneath the closed eyelids to simulate sleep. A skill he was quite successful at.

His heart thumped a bit as the feet grew closer. He figured that they were coming from the entrance to his right. Still, it did not necessarily matter _where_ the feet were coming from, he knew who it was either way.

The pattering grew ever louder, and he was starting to have trouble keeping his rate down. Louder and louder the pattering feet grew, entering his room, then crossing it, until they finally ended right by his bedside.

"Brother, wake up," a little voice whispered loudly in his ear, a hot breath causing tingles to form over the seemingly asleep boy's skin.

He ignored it.

"Come on, Yasai," the voice whispered a little louder.

Yasai. It was so strange to be addressed that way. Earlier, when he had first arrived at this foreign place, he was not addressed as neither Yasai nor Chill. Those moments, when his father had first left him, and he was at the mercy of the strangers who poked and prodded at his body while he lay helpless and mute on the cot, he was addressed by strange names. Some had called him John, others called him Doe, and few called him both at the same time. They were strange titles, and he did not understand why he was being called those things, but by then he was slipping in and out of consciousness, and was quite unable to ask (not that he actually would have). But this name, Yasai, was something entirely different.

Perhaps it was because it was his _official_ name, a completely new title, in a completely new place. But that name, it did not feel as though it belonged to him. That name was so pretty, it rolled of the tongue in such a passionate way. The 'S' coming out as a mere breath, gracing the air with a gentleness that just did not seem to belong to him. That name was exotic, like it would belong to someone of royalty, perhaps a warden. The name had expectations, a high honor surrounding it, only deserving greatness. A greatness that he would never have. A greatness that he could never hope to display. That name _meant_ something, like it should belong to the young lavender-headed boy that stood beside him now. It did not fit _him_—the poor excuse for a son that amounted to nothing but a useless vessel that lied in his own sickness all day—at all.

But strangely... it felt like it did...

The boy, his _brother_, was still standing there, his fingers clutching the metal bar of Yasai's bed. "Come on, I know you want to wake up. You've been sleeping for a week! Don't you want to talk to me?"

Yasai felt a pang in his chest, because he really did not want to talk to him.

"Dad told me you sleep so much because you're sick and trying to heal. But Goten was sick a while ago–had a really bad cough and everything, a high fever too–and he was better after only four days! And, he wasn't sleep nearly as much as you do, we were still able to play his board games!" Trunks exclaimed.

Yasai continued to sleep.

"Trunks!" a familiar feminine voice called out, her voice sounding right from the doorway, "you better not be in Yasai's room again!"

The sickly boy forced his heart to still.

The only thing just as bad as the brother, was the _mother_.

"But, Mom," Trunks whined as she crossed the room, "he's been sleeping for a—"

"I know, Honey," the woman said, her voice barely softening as she grabbed him, and forced a mask over his lips, "but you cannot be in here without an adult, and _especially_ without any covering. Do you want to get sick?"

"No... But he doesn't look all that sick!" he exclaimed, earning him narrowed eyes and a shush from his mother.

"Trust me, Trunks, he is very sick, and you can very easy catch them. Do you understand?

The boy begrudgingly nodded, and reached his hand out to grab one a disposable hospital gown from the portable dispenser, when his mother stopped him.

"Mom..." he whined, as the woman pulled him away from the bed.

"Lower your voice, Trunks. We have to leave him be, or he'll stay sick longer."

The boy pouted as he was led out of the room. He muttered back softly, "I know. But when will he wake up?"

"I don't know, but bothering him isn't going to make it sooner; he needs his rest. Come on, let's go mess with your dad."

Trunks gave a small smile, and his eyes brightened up a bit. "Alright. Do you think I can get him to drive air cars with me?"

The sick boy did not hear the answer, as two disappeared from the room, closing the door behind them.

Yasai waited a few more minutes before he opened his eyes. The pumping in his heart slowed, as guilty relief washed over him. He tried to ignore it, and only stared up at the crème ceiling with brown dots and tiny cracks.

TBC

* * *

><p>I hope you enjoyed! I really wasn't sure how to start this, but I am pleased with this chapter. Review! Let me know your thoughts and suggestions! They will really help, especially this early in the story!<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon ball Z or any of the character's except for my OC's_

_Summary: Yasai never thought he'd end up in a place like this. A new family that wasn't really his, and a life that did not belong to him. His body has healed, but his mind hasn't, and he is still scared. Of what, he isn't sure. But this is a fear he is not sure he can let go of. Especially not with the lingering thoughts that he still isn't safe. Not yet, not ever... Sequel to BWTB_

_Warning: Rated M for language, abuse, rape, mpreg, etc._

_In response to __**pannybaby123**__: _Thanks for reviewing! I also can't wait to see where I take this story :)

_In response to __**jalfal**__: _I missed you! I thought you stopped reviewing because you stopped reading :( . I definitely like to look more in depth with my characters, and I am also looking forward to character interactions between... well... everybody!

_In response to __**anon**__: _I do understand your concern, because they are the same things I am worried about. I just want to let you know that I have no intention of casting aside anyone from the Brief family, and I will try my best to keep Vegeta in character (I'm not even a fan of 'uke Vegeta', so I hope that it's unlikely that I will change his persona to make it fit as so). I do not plan on making it anything romance-wise 'full-out' as of right now, only little snippets, so I hope that lessens your worries! :)

_Blind Eyes Opened_

_**Chapter two:**_

_Bugs. Tiny bugs had his attention now. Well, he supposed they weren't particularly _tiny_—they were around the size of his big toe, which was not all that big—but in comparison to his entire body, they made him feel like a giant._ _He kind of liked that feeling, because when he had asked Neeila how tall he was, she told him that he was rather short, barely coming to the guards' hips. Which seemed to explain why when he was on his knees before the warden, he had to strain his legs to reach the very object that he was supposed to hold in his mouth. _

_That thought made that nauseous feeling in his stomach come back, so he decided to ignore it, and focus on the insects._

_The bugs were everywhere, surrounding the ground around him. They crawled across his toes, and up the cloth of his pants. Their tiny legs tickled his body, and he nearly squirmed underneath their touch. He did not dare move though, in fear that he would frighten them, and they would leave._

_He wondered if it was pathetic that only a couple of bugs would touch him. It made sense to him though. Why wouldn't a bunch of bugs revel in a host who willingly let them crawl all over him? It did not matter who he was, because __h__ow can you soil vermin, when you were just as filthy?_

_He shuddered a bit as a bug ran across his arm, which was wrapped over his other arm, which was in turn wrapped around his drawn-up knees. Atop of his tiny drawn-up knees, rested his tiny head, which connected to his skinny neck, and then his frail back, which was pressed into a wooden corner. His young body was small, and wrapped into itself easily. Too easily, if he was anyone else._

_He wondered if the other inmates were watching him, laughing as he sat in this pathetic position, only finding comfort in the vermin that crawled over his body. He doubted it, because he seemed to have lucked out, and the prisoners that shared this barrack, did not particularly care that he was there. They just ignored him: stepped out of his way when he walked past, and did not speak to him unless it was truly necessary. They were already to broken to try and break him._

_His neck was hurting from being in this position, and he was starting to feel sick and wanted desperately to puke whatever was attacking his stomach. He did not move or vomit, because he did not think he could bear being ridiculed to his face this early before he had to go mining, and there was not enough morsels in his stomach for him to waste on something as unnecessary as vomit._

_With that in mind, he picked up one of the insects. It squirmed like mad between his fingers, before he popped it in his mouth. It was crunchy, but there was still tons of liquid inside of it, which tasted bitter, and upset his stomach even more. He ignored the discomfort though, because his body desperately needed it and was begging for more, so he popped one after another into his mouth, his eyes watering as they crawled in his mouth before he chewed them to death, and forced himself to swallow the awful taste. _

_He stopped when he could no longer feel any more of them on his body, and when his throat closed up from the tears that were not going to fall. As much as he wanted to, he didn't have nearly enough fluids in his body to waste them on something as unnecessary as tears. There were tons of things worthy of crying over, but this was not one of them._

_He really wanted to cry though, if he could. One of the only things that would touch him—Neeila did not count; she was an enigma, and Chill did not have the time to contemplate her—and he ate them. He felt like he should be elated. Elated because he'd just eaten—cheated death for slightly longer—and that he had just experienced a rare moment. A rare moment of control was what he experienced. Control, over the fate of the vermin's lives, just as the warden and the guards had control over his life._

_He felt no happiness, but he also felt no regret, and only hoped that the bugs weren't poisonous (why he felt like crying, he was not sure of). Or at least, hoped that they were not to the point where they would kill him. Everything here was poisonous. Especially him; he was poisonous. Just imagine: poisonous vermin boy, killed by poisonous vermin insects. Seemed fitting, did it not?_

_He did not like his new barrack that he was forced to sleep in. He'd rather go back to the main building, and "warm the warden's bed", as the warden himself so eloquently put it. Not that he wanted to have the warden touch him in places that hurt, and made him feel embarrassed and dirty, but he also did not want to do much of anything. He could not remember once ever actually wanting to _do_ something. What could someone like him possibly desire? _Allowed_ to desire?_

_He should probably be used to his new sleeping arrangements by now. It had after all, been a _long _time since he slept inside the main building (if he knew time, he would know that it had been two years, but he didn't, so that only made it seem like much longer). He was a bit used to these arrangements, he supposed, but that did not mean he wanted them. But as stated before, he did not want many things, so he supposed he should just get over it. He was having a hard time doing so, though. Also, with sleeping outside of the main building, he had much more difficult responsibilities. There were times when he did not understand the commands—he may not know that he is six years old, but it is not rocket science for him to know that he is young, and his vocabulary (while advanced for his age) is just not enough to keep up with the educated adults—the guards gave him, but he was considered in the eyes of the warden, 'old enough' to be able to follow them. He did not know why, but he always struggled with the task of following directions quickly, no matter how hard he tried. He always seemed to be a bit delayed with his response; he needed time to analyze the words that were being said to him, before he could even think about doing as he was told. But the guards spoke fast, and cracked you with whips and chains if you so much as hesitated. Not only did those whips and chains _hurt, _but they also injured, so that you would always feel the pain, the day after, and the day after that, so it was even harder to perform one's duties. How was he supposed to mine, when his lower back stung with each swing of his arms? How was he too clear away the dead bodies that littered the ground, when he could barely walk? How was he supposed to pick the harvestable cotton from their sharp buds when his fingers were broken? He missed when he lived in the building; the chores were easier, food was more likely to come by, and when he was bored, he could just listen to the intriguing conversations of the guards that watched him. _

_He supposed he just missed being younger. Didn't everyone wish they could go back to their youth, when life was easier? It did not seem fair though, because Neeila always brought up the point that he still was in fact, a youth. She told him that two years meant nothing; he was still a baby._

_He did not like his new barrack for a number of reasons. For starters, the floor was hard, and dirty, and scrapped his skin when he laid on it, and when he was asleep and his face rolled directly onto it, he would breathe in dirt, which made him wake up to an awful coughing fit, that pissed off the rest of his inmates (again as he had said, they ignored him, and he wanted it to stay that way). The floor in the warden's chamber was still hard, but it was clean and smooth, and much more desirable than this (despite the fact that he was forced to wear a collar and chain to make him stay put)._

_It was hot in his barrack. Stiflingly hot. There were too many people inside—he was not the only one who was forced to sleep on the floor—and the building was far too small (compared to the main building anyway; it is actually quite large for a barrack). The scent of other people's body odor was something he got used to quickly, but their presence was not. He did not like being enclosed in his corner, barely having room to move. In the warden's room, it was quiet once the Ziloh was asleep, but there was always noise happening in this large barrack, and he hated it. Neeila also did not share this barrack with him, and he felt alone. He supposed he should be happy with this. Being alone meant no confusion. Being alone meant no pain. _

_Or at least, it meant not physically._

_What happened next took a minute to process. One moment he was cowering in the corner as usual. The next, he's flying into the corner on the other side of the barrack, as it he was rammed by a fucking wall._

_It's his shoulder that takes the worse impact as his body rams into the opposite corner. His body thuds to the ground, his nose banging against the dirt floor. A nearly unbearable heat blows over him in waves, and he holds his breath to avoid the painful suffocating sensation. _

_He stumbles to his feet, as the now familiar heat continues to trap him. A fire—judging from the way it threw his body, was caused by an explosion—was destroying his barrack (he vaguely wondered how many barracks had been taken out already, but decided it did not matter), and fast._

_It was a struggle to move, because his sense of direction was off, and he had no idea where he was going. He wanted to run, but every time he tried, he stepped on scolding ground, which always made him fall over, and made it harder for him to get back up again and run with burning feet. He could hear the screams of his other barrack mates as the walls fell, trapping and crushing them, the fire burning their flesh, just as it was doing to Chill. He heard the heavy footfalls of the survivors, and he was a bit proud that he was one of them. He knew he would make it out; he had survived situations far worse than this. He was made for these types of things._

_He had begun to run again, but when he tripped this time, it was not due to burning ground, but rather, a body. A body, that shuddered against Chill's foot as he kicked it, before he fell over top of it. A body, that was still alive._

_Chill's body sprawled across the ground and the thrashing body for only a second, before he was on his feet again. _

"_**Pab kuv, pab kuv! Niam, leej niam!**__" The body screamed—a boy—in a language that Chill did not recognize. The boy latched his arms around Chill's leg._

"_**Biarkan aku pergi, anak laki-laki!**__"__Chill screamed back in the native Tenemareen language, as he tried to pull his leg free. _

_The boy did not listen, and only clung to him tighter and cried back, "__**pab kuv, pab kuv... leej niam**_..._"_

_Chill had nearly yanked his ankle free, when a loud crack caught his attention. His head shot up—despite his inability to see, he felt _something_ in the back of his mind telling him that the noise was coming from above—as a wooden board broke off of the ceiling and dropped over him. He sensed it falling, and automatically braced his hands high above his head. _

_A shout tore from him as the weight of the board forced him down__onto one knee, causing the strange child's arms to slide up and wrap around Chill's thigh, screaming as loud as possible. This board was heavy, and would crush his body, suffocating him to death._

_Chill growled as he felt the wood press against to the top of his head; the non-existent muscles of his arms straining painfully to keep himself alive. His teeth ground against each other as his arms begged to give out; this weight was just too much. The boy was screaming beneath him, his thigh crushed tightly between tiny arms. A child's arms, those that were even tinier than his. He was just a helpless baby—like himself—who was depending on _him_ to survive another day._

_He did now know why, but it was that thought that forced him to push himself back to his feet. _

_Sweat poured down his body, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. He ignored this, and the burning pain in the muscles, as he pushed with all of his might. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. This was it. Either be strong enough, or they would both die. The latter was not an option. He could not let it be an option._

_He cried out as he pushed the board off of his head. Power, unlike the kind he'd ever known to possess, lifted the board enough that he was able to throw it to the side. He did not have time to bask in the surprising victory, because he was already on the ground. His arms ached, but he forced himself to pull the boy up, and onto his back. The child felt so light, compared to the board that had nearly crushed them both to death._

_Chill was running, and paid no mind to the rocks that scraped his foot, or the fire that burned his heels. He only locked his arms tightly under the boy's rump, and ran as fast as he could._

_So fast, that when he ran into a wall, he flew back as if he had been pushed. His nose burned, and the air had been knocked out of his lung so quickly, that it hurt to suck it back in. _

_He jumped back to alertness when he realized he could not suck it back in, because he was still inside the burning barrack, and the only thing he could breathe was smoke. He hopped up again, and pulled the boy—whom he had crushed with his body weight when he fell—back to his feet. He dragged him to the wall he had just rammed into. His hand braced itself against the wall, and felt the deep crack he had left. He had run into a wall, and broken it, so that must mean this was a valid exit..._

_He released the boy, stepped back, and ran at the wall again. _

_His shoulder burned, but the satisfying crunch the portion of the wall crumbling inside of itself was enough to allow him to ignore the pain. He immediately reached back, grabbed the child's sleeve, and dragged the boy out of the opening. He pulled him until he could no longer feel the flames licking his heels, and collapsed on the ground._

"_**NIAM! TXIV!" **__Chill hears the boy beside him shout, before the boy was gone. He hears crying, the crying of a woman. They were not cries of pain, and Chill was confused for a moment. He then came to the conclusion that the woman was in some relation to the boy whom he'd just saved. Chill decides that he should leave, before the woman sees him, and hurts him for touching her son._

_That, however, is not possible, because there are large hands grabbing his shoulders, and situating him on his knees. The hands are too big for him to believe they are the woman's, and he can still hear her crying a bit away from him, clutching the life out of her son. These hands, he assumed, belonged to a male, and that did not goad well with Chill._

_He holds his breath, as panic starts to overwhelm him. _

_Instead of punches or slaps, he feels thick fingers rubbing his cheek bit roughly—but oddly tender—and fingers clutching his hair, but not painfully. The man speaks his language, words that he can understand, but still, do not make sense to Chill._

"_Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." The man says, in a soft voice that Chill could not remember ever hearing directed towards him. And those words, those were definitely never said to him before. What would anyone ever need to thank him for? Saving their lives? No, no one has ever thanked him for that. Not until this man—who despite his large hands and stature, held his face with a gentle firmness—who really must love his son so much, that he would lower himself to _thanking_ worthless scum like Chill._

_That type of love, felt so good to witness. Chill wondered if it would feel even more amazing, directed at him. _

_He wondered if his mother had ever loved him this much. _

_He figured not. It was nice to pretend though._

_He decided to stop thinking, and pay attention to the man kneeling in front of him. He figured the man wanted a reply, and Chill wanted to give one to him. He knew he was not supposed to; he was not allowed to speak. But he was alone with this man, right? Surely he could not be punished if he was not caught. But would this man accept the words he had to say? His voice... would the man truly want to hear it?_

_He decided to take this chance because honestly. What could this man do to him that would be worse than what Chill has already endured?_

"_You... are welcome." His voice is scratchy and rough. Scratchy and rougher than that of other boy's his age, he supposed. The man did not seemed to mine though, and only continued to pet his dark hair._

_At least he was, until the collar of his shirt was yanked. He flew back, and grunted once his body settled on the stone ground. He felt the bottom side of a boot press against his cheek, forcing his face against the ground._

"_Was this caused by an explosion?" a guard that Chill could not recognize spoke. Chill kept quiet, because he was almost sure that the question was not directed at him._

"_Yes, sir," the same man who had held his face with the foreign gentleness not a few seconds ago spoke. "The explosion wiped out three of the neighboring barracks, sir. We barely escaped with our lives—particularly my son—but we are all fine now, because of _him_."_

"Him_?" It took the guard a moment to realize that they were referring to the boy whose face he was currently pushing into the ground. "What did _he_ do for your... son?" he did not disguise his disgust at the tiny boy being cradled by his mother._

"_He kept a board from crushing them both! I saw it with my own eyes from out here—I could not get in because all of the entrances had been blocked and I could not get through—and he carried my boy out. Then smashed right through the wall like it was nothing!"_

_Chill was surprised when the guard had no reply. Chill might have imagined it, but he could have sworn felt the boot pressed against his face tremble. He wanted to curse the man. He probably thought that he was helping Chill; putting him in good graces with the guard. It was quite the opposite in fact._

_Quite obviously the opposite, because the boot was no longer pressed against his cheek, but bashing against his ear. _

_Chill screamed out as his body slide across the rock ground, his hand flying up to clutch his bleeding, burning ear. His other arm instinctually came up to cover the rest of his face. While he did not necessarily want to be kicked in the arm, he knew that a kick to his unprotected face could end fatally._

_The boot did not kick him again however, but a hand was tangled in his hair (roughly this time). The hand forced him none-to-gently onto his knees, and Chill gritted his teeth to keep from yelping. His tiny hands flew up to clench just beneath the guards grip, lessening the pressure as best as he could._

"_He lifted a large board—one of the ceiling ones I presume—you say?" The guard sneered._

_The man straightened his back, his nervousness obvious even from Chill's position on his knees, "y-yes sir."_

_Chill felt the grip in his hair tighten. "And you are certain of this. The warden will not take kindly to being lied too."_

_The warden? Oh hell, not the _warden_! He was in So. Much. Trouble._

"_I am certain, sir."_

"_Very well then," the guard replied, before tugging on the boy, and dragging him. Chill fumbled on his knees, before he awkwardly got his feet underneath him. The hand in his hair stopped tugging him after a bit though, as the guard stopped bit further away from the wreckage._

"_Ah yes, I nearly forgot. Your _child's_ life has now been rendered invalid."_

"_I-invalid...?" The woman said, holding her child tighter against her chest._

"_That foul creature you call a son had his life protected by a being that does not even deserve the life he possesses. Thus, your son's life has now been rendered invalid." The guard said, his free hand reaching into the supply belt around his waist, while Chill tried to understand the logic in that statement (as he said, he was also slow to understand these types of things). He was startled from his thoughts though, by the familiar 'bang' of a gun being fired._

_The 'bang' ended quickly, and was followed by a sickening thud. _

_The sickening, stomach-turning thud, that came from a disembodied head crashing against the stone ground. _

_Then there was screaming. _

_Nothing but screaming..._

* * *

><p><em>His body thrashed violently on a soft, yet firm surface. He could not see, but that was not strange, because he was never able to see. But for some reason, this darkness seemed so frightening; he could not remember ever being so terrified of the dark. This darkness was so completely terrifying, that he did not want to be a part of this darkness <em>any_ longer._

_Miraculously, his wish was granted and he was able to see—blurry, but seeing all the same. With his new sight however, he now could not move. Had he ever been able to move? Was his thrashing all in his mind? He figured so, because there was something holding him down: skinny, yet tough, dark blurry lines crossed over his upper chest, hips, and thighs. When he turned his head he saw that they also restricted his wrists, and when he tried to move his feet, he felt them holding down his ankles._

_His heart pounded, as panic waved over him. If he stayed here, tied down to this plush surface, he would die. Whether by accident or not, the guards would come back and kill him (he knew, because he did not have the energy to even attempt to withstand any more punishment). He needed to be gone before that happened. He needed to escape while he still had the little strength to do so. He would be punished for it later, but at least he would survive to see another day. He had to survive, and not just for the warden's sake. Not just for the trillions of strangers all over the north galaxy who want his suffering to continue. He had to survive, because he could not__ shame his mother. _

_His mother, who died a hero, would be ashamed if he did not fight. Ashamed, if he did not protect the life he did not deserve._

_Also, if he left the physical world, Neeila would not be coming with him. And what was the point of existing without her?_

_It was that thought that allowed him to pull his wrist, and snap the dark-colored restraint. He turned his head to look upward, furrowing his brow as he pulled on his other wrist. It was too late to stop himself from breaking the second strap, as his body froze all over._

Blurry... crème ceiling with brown dots and tiny cracks.

Oh hell.

He closed his eyes. His body shuddered, as he held in his whimpers.

A daydream.

He had not even been asleep.

His nightmares, while missing, would eventually have to come back—where could they have possibly gone?—and now paired with these terrible daydreams, he had nowhere else to escape too.

He exhaled roughly, and brought his hands up to rub his eyes. When he met no resistance, and the hardened material of his casts connected with his cheeks, his eyes flew open in shock. He focused his vision on the whites of casts. His white casts, which he was most certain, were supposed to be pinned to the bed by tough straps.

Pinned to the bed by tough straps, which he had just broken, and almost effortlessly at that.

His fingers (which all seemed to be completely mended for the first time in a long time) grabbed at his bangs and tugged. He bit his lip tightly, and tried not to lose control of himself.

He was going to be in So. Much. _Trouble_.

He took stuttering deep breathes. He had to calm down; freaking out was not going to help anything. It would probably only serve to make his situation worse.

_'Think. Think.'_ He thought to himself. They would be back—the strangers, with the dark clothing, and half of their faces. Possibly, Vegeta as well—and he was sure it would be soon, because as he had already stated, he was rarely alone for long.

He had no other choice than to fix them.

He pinched himself in punishment. '_Fix them how, idiot?'_

He rubbed his casts over his eyes, but stopped when he felt a strange stretch of the stitches in his right shoulder. The ones that had used to be in his eyebrow and cheek were gone, but the ones in his shoulder remained.

He exhaled roughly, and looked down at the damaged straps. It was not anything spectacular: a simple tear down the middle. Just a rip, clear through what looked suspiciously metallic.

Metal.

Oh hell, he'd just broken _metal_.

_'Breathe. Breathe'_ a voice that painfully reminded him of Neeila's filled his ears. Perhaps it was this that made him obey. He pulled long, big gulps of air, before releasing slowly. He had to calm down, or he would be caught. He would be caught breaking metal, with strength he was not allowed to possess.

But how was he to fix metal? He could not tie it together, only mend it. But mend it how?

He got an idea on how to mend it, but the idea made him feel a bit sick. If he was caught doing this, there was no telling how Vegeta would react. Especially since this power belonged to the very person Vegeta hated most. Well, the person who _everyone_ hated most. Hell, the person—despite never meeting him—who Yasai hated most.

But there was no other way.

He sucked in a breath. He then reached down, and pressed the two halves of the broken metal together around his wrist. He did the same to his other wrist as best as he could—it was considerably harder, since he only had one hand to work with—and leaned his head slowly back against his pillow, trying his best to refrain from moving so as not to disturb the broken cuffs positions.

Once he was reclined fully back onto the pillow, and his body was completely settled, he took another deep breath, and closed his eyes. His heart pounded, as he waited for someone to storm inside, and catch him in the act. When five minutes went by and he was still alone, he decided he could not put this off any longer.

He exhaled roughly, and concentrated. In his mind, he tried to imagine the metal as best he could; all the way down to the tiny molecules. It was hard—he had never even attempted something this difficult before—but he was starting to get a headache, so he figured he was on the right track.

His head began to pound as a dull, colorful diaphragm of the metal strap appeared in the darkness of his closed eyes. The tiny strands that connected together to make a colorful pattern of light blues and greens dazzled him, but he forced himself not to get overwhelmed. He concentrated on the blue and green pattern, until it ended. Instead of the pattern continuing, it ended with incomplete light red lines. It was nearly compatible with the other red lines vertical of it, which pressed against them.

His head banged harder as he forced the red lines to connect back together. The lines brightened in color as they molded back together. He nearly gave a laugh as every molecule connected, leaving only a bit of a darker green and blue color where it was damaged. He did not though—he was not even sure he knew how to laugh anymore—because he still had the other strap to do. It was not as difficult though, because he knew what to do now. It only took him a couple of minutes to fix the other strap.

His eyes flew opened as he cried out. He was exhausted, his head burned like fire, and there was an awful thumping in the back of his skull. Sweat dripped down his skin as he looked down at his work. The material was completely molded back together, leaving only a slightly darker, stitched affect if you focused enough. He could only hope that the strangers and his father would not notice.

With a big gasp of air, he dropped his head heavily back onto his pillow. He barely settled against the cushion, when he was asleep.

* * *

><p>As it turns out, they were going to remove the restraints anyway.<p>

He was not sure exactly why—what good behavior did he display that motivated them to free him?—and was not sure he cared. He was a bit annoyed that he had gone through the trouble of fixing the straps for nothing, but he supposed that it was worthwhile. Neither the strangers, nor Vegeta, were able to tell that the straps were ever broken in the first place.

He wondered for a moment if they would have still released him if they had known he had broken them. He doubted it. He knew that they had restrained him because of his strength in the first place. If they knew that it was the same strength that damaged the straps...

He was alone again. The strangers had been in this room he resided for what seemed like an eternity: giving him check-ups, and shots, and removing bandages where he no longer needed them, or adding them when he needed new ones. Afterwards, his father had stayed, but by then he was exhausted again, and slept.

When he had awaken, Vegeta was gone, but Yasai knew that he was not far. He was never far, and Yasai was not sure how he felt about that. He supposes it should make him feel good, but still, he liked to have a moment analyze the emotions he may or may not be feeling. Especially because of this new, foreign place he was now in.

He could sit up on his own now, but he tried not to move too much, because it made him rather tired. He did not want to sleep yet; he had to make sure that he could be awake without experiencing his dreaded visions, before he made sleeping his new official safe haven.

To keep himself from falling asleep, he tried to busy his mind. He studied his fingernails—the guards had stopped pulling them off long enough for them to grow back—which were black, but dull, and some had a few cracks in them. They were hard when he tapped them against his teeth, and despite the cracks, were rather smooth when he rubbed them against his cheek. Well, when he rubbed them against his cheek with his left hand. He was avoiding moving his right arm. He did not want to disturb the threadlike material that was weaved through his shoulder. When Vegeta had been here earlier, Yasai had tapped the strange material, and Vegeta responded that it was there to mend the gash in his shoulder. He also said that they were probably going to remove the material—_stitches_, he called it. He had had something akin to stitches in his body when his wounds were life-threatening, but these seemed different somehow, and the doctors on Tenemareen were hardly ever this neat with their work on prisoners—tomorrow, but until then he must leave it alone, because his injury would need as much time as it could get to heal.

Heal.

He was healing.

That thought was... was strange. He had never _healed_ before, at least not like this. Sure there were times on Tenemareen when he noticed that his injuries were less severe as before—his previously broken foot was easier to walk on, the pains in his stomach from eating something inedible lessened—but this was different. His entire body was _healing_, without the threat of new injuries to slow down the process. For him to feel no pain _anywhere_ at all, only a mushy numbness was... strange. So strange, that he decided not to contemplate it. He had no answers as to what he was thinking, so he decided to ignore it until he did. Only focus on the main point, which was... healing.

He exhaled, and leaned back. The headboard of the bed pressed a bit uncomfortably into his shoulders, as his head fell back against the wall. He ignored it though—this was just discomfort, and it felt rather nice to feel _something_—and stared up at the ceiling.

He wanted to eat.

He wanted to pee. Like, _actually_ pee.

He wanted to get off of this damn bed and walk.

None of those things were options. First of all, he could see no bugs or rodents—or any other creature physically smaller, and probably weaker—than him crawling around this bright spacious room he was in, so to find food (despite not being hungry) he would have to leave the room. _That_ was not an option, because he did not have the energy, to get off of this damn bed and walk, no matter how badly he wanted too. He could not pee because, well, he did not need to at the moment.

He was starting to feel a bit claustrophobic.

Taking a deep breath—just as the voice of Neeila had told him too—he averted his gaze to the large see-through glass adjacent of him. It did not take a lot of work to realize that on the other side of the glass, was 'outside'. This 'outside' was far different from the 'outside' he was used to: brown and red, dusty and rocks, fire and acidic water. _This_ 'outside' was strange: a large expanse of bright—nearly white—blue overhead, large brown structures with white-covered green thin material sprouting from it. The ground was also green, with white frosted over it. The white in question, was falling somehow from the sky at a steady pace. A steady pace, that made him feel a bit content, and slightly less trapped.

Suddenly, he wondered what Neeila would look like with this fluffy powder sprinkled all over her bright blonde hair, and glittery skin.

He stopped wondering; it hurt too much to do so.

He stopped all of his thoughts and closed his eyes, because he could hear footsteps. These were not the loud steps of the many strangers, or frantic footfalls off the little boy he was avoiding, or the delicate steps of the woman he did not wish to see. These footsteps were the same ones he heard come down quite frequently. These were the only footsteps he welcomed.

Vegeta stepped into the room, surprised—but not really—to see the boy sitting up. The boy's eyes were closed, but Vegeta could tell that he was not asleep. He had left not an hour ago (when the boy was _actually_ sleep), and had again, watched one of those damn American cartoons on the damn Earth television with Trunks, for a damn half an hour. Once he sent the boy to find his mother, he had eaten—for which he had to suffer through Mrs. Brief's dreadful chatter about how he was _such_ a strong man, and really should try the '_strawberry daifuku' _because it was just so _damn _good—and came back down here.

He walked the expanse of the room, neither a mask or protective gown in sight—Vegeta had been given permanent vaccinations to the majority of Yasai's infections during his time on Frieza's ship (mandatory for all soldiers), and his saiyan immune system was strong enough to fight the rest of them off—and sat himself down in his usual burgundy chair at the boy's bedside. His son did not say anything—did not even open his eyes—and Vegeta was alright with letting the silence drag on. He braced his elbows on his knees, and watched his son's peaceful face. He was starting to get a bit of color back—which made the black lines on his cheeks less intense—but Vegeta knew that his true skin color would not be revealed until he got some proper sun. The blankets pooled around his tiny hips, nearly exposing his nakedness, and Vegeta was tempted to lift the sheet up to a more modest position. He didn't, however, because he could not bring himself to disturb this rare moment of peace: for both him and Yasai.

That almost did not make sense: a moment of peace for Yasai; how could such a thing exist? How could this boy ever be peaceful, with his past still so fresh? How could he even pretend to be at peace, when there were dark blue and purple bruises on his neck that only could have gotten there from being strangled? Scars that marred his whole body and illnesses that kept him locked inside of this room; how could anyone ever feel peace like this? Vegeta certainly would not have been peaceful. Vegeta would have been _many_ things, but peaceful was certainly not one of them.

Vegeta decided to stop contemplating this, as the boy was shifting. He was not sure how long he sat there in his burgundy chair, staring at his son's content face, and the rise and fall of his far too fragile chest—all the while being lost in pointless though—when the teenager's eyes opened. Vegeta watched as Yasai turned his head, and connected his gaze with his. The boy did not smile—Vegeta noticed that he hardly ever did—but rather had his usual blank expression painted on his face. Vegeta did not miss, however, that relief—and dare he say—a bit of happiness reflected in his ruby eyes as he strained his eyes. A thought passed in his mind: would the boy ever be happy?

Vegeta did not say anything, and only held the comfortable eye contact. He did not see the point in speaking; Yasai would not respond, and Vegeta had nothing of any importance to say. He only let the silence control the room, as he stared at his firstborn.

After a few minutes went by, Yasai broke the contact himself, and opted to stare at the large window across the room. Vegeta also looked that way, and took in the familiar white puffs that fell from the sky. They were not all that spectacular—snow did in fact, exist on other planets—but he supposed that he could understand—to an extent—why Trunks, Bulma, and the older Briefs would stare at them through a window at night, safe from the cold inside of the house. Vegeta had not done that since his first year on Earth, but he could not deny that he did not enjoy the content atmosphere that his wife, son, and in-laws created, and basked in.

He turned and looked back at his eldest son, but furrowed his brows at the sight before him. The boy was indeed staring at the window, but his head was leaning forward just a bit, and his eyes were squinting. Vegeta noticed that he did that quite frequently.

Could the boy... not _see_?

Vegeta tried not to get annoyed—it was not the boy's fault that he had poor eyesight—and decided to analyze the given situation. He supposed it made sense: he had worn a filthy blindfold for the majority of his life, and the doctors had said that they found numerous poisonous substances still lingering inside of his eyes. The doctors had flushed his eyes, and assured Vegeta that there were no more traces of any poison left, but had it already damaged his eyes permanently?

He supposed he should find out.

"Yasai," he spoke. The boy's attention was on him instantly.

"I am going to need to check something. I need you to answer some questions for me, alright?"

Yasai hesitated, obviously confused, before nodding his head.

Vegeta then held up his hand, and pointed out three fingers. He was a bit annoyed that he had to resort to this basic technique to test his son's eyesight, but he figured it was for the best.

"Can you see my fingers?"

Yasai nodded.

"How many am I holding up?"

The boy was still for a moment, before he stuck up three of his own fingers.

"Alright," Vegeta responded, before standing from his chair. Yasai watched him as he walked to the other side of the room to stand in front of the window.

"Can you see me?" Vegeta asked.

The boy nodded.

"Can you see my hand?"

The boy's eyes squinted, before he nodded slowly.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

Yasai squint his eyes as best as he could, before they widened again in quickly-growing panic. He then gave Vegeta a desperate look, which caused the man's stomach to drop.

"You are not in trouble, son," Vegeta replied quickly and evenly. "Just answer my question as best as you can."

The prince tried to ignore the way his son gulped, as his eyes squinted again. It was a long moment—and Vegeta was starting to get impatient—when the boy held up two shaking fingers.

Vegeta frowned. He was holding up four fingers, not two.

Vegeta forced the frown away from his face, as he moved to sit back down in his burgundy chair. Yasai's eyes glowed with curiosity, and Vegeta tried to find the best way to say what needed to be said, without causing his son to freak out.

"Your vision is impaired."

Yasai's head cocked to the side. He knew what 'impaired' meant, but what did he mean by his vision being impaired?

"You can't see as well as you should. We are going to get it fixed."

Fixed?

"You know of the doctors that come to see you ever now and then?"

Yasai nodded slowly. He did not like where this conversation was going.

"There is a special one, a... optometrist, I believe, who will look into your eyes, and see where the problem is, so that it can be corrected."

Yasai shook his head 'no', and the desperate look was once again back in his eyes.

"Yasai, you have to trust me."

The boy was not listening any longer though. His head flopped back against the pillow, as he continued to shake 'no'. There was a tiny squeal heard from the back of the boy's throat.

Vegeta held back his growl, and tried not to get frustrated. He sighed out his annoyance, and said evenly. "I am not going to force you to go."

The boy looked at him through the corner of his eyes, his brows furrowed in obvious disbelief, and a tad of distrust. Vegeta hoped that the distrust was only for the words he was saying right now, not for _him_ as a whole. Things would be much more difficult if Yasai did not trust him.

"I will not force you," he repeated. "But I advise you go."

The boy shook his head again, though not as frantically as before. The trust was back in the boy's posture, and Vegeta felt a slight bit of relief pierce through his agitation.

Vegeta huffed out a breath, and leaned back in his chair. He would have to try this another time.

The silence that followed was not as peaceful as before, but Vegeta wasn't really paying much attention this time around. He was too busy getting his irritation under control. He knew that the boy was a big ball of issue (especially concerning his eyes), and he had to learn to be patient. He was not good at patience. He would get it, though... he hoped...

His ears perked at the sound of pattering feet.

The footfalls must have attracted Yasai's attention as well, because he was looking past Vegeta, and at the closed door, which in a few seconds, would have a hyperactive eight-year old bursting through it.

He spared a single glance at his eldest, who had a pleading look on his face, despite not even looking at Vegeta. As if he was begging _anyone_ to keep the younger boy from crossing the threshold into the room. The prince could not say he blamed the teen; Trunks is too overwhelming for him to handle right now.

Vegeta stood to his feet. He spared Yasai a final glance—he would probably be asleep again in a few minutes—before walking to the door and opening it. As soon as his body crossed over the threshold, Trunk slammed into his legs. His youngest son bounced ricocheted off of his legs, and fell back on the floor with a 'thump'. The boy groaned and rubbed his forehead, while Vegeta closed the door behind him, and arched his brow. The boy blinked, before he focused on his father in front of him.

"Dad!" he exclaimed, his eyes brightening. Not a second later, the brightness left and was replaced by nervousness.

"And where were you going?"

"Um... nowhere?" Trunks replied, a nervous smile forming on his little face.

"Don't lie to me." Vegeta said back, in a stern voice that seemed to have formed somewhere down the line in his past eight-years of parenting.

"I was... going to visit Yasai," Trunks admitted in defeat.

Vegeta sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Trunks, I am not going to keep telling you to stop coming here."

"I know."

"He is highly contagious, and needs his rest to heal. I have told you this already."

"He's always resting," Trunks muttered as he pushed himself onto his feet.

"Yes he is." Trunks winced at being caught mumbling. "And I know you really want to visit him, but you have to be... patient. I promised you that I would take you to see him when he is better, didn't I?"

Trunks nodded.

"Have I ever broken a promise?"

Trunks shook his head 'no'.

"Then stop coming down here until then, alright?"

"Alright, Dad," The boy responded, but there was still a bit of a pout on his lips. Vegeta did not like that damned pout; it almost—_**almost**_—made him feel bad when he chastised Trunks. Vegeta furrowed his brow. He did not necessarily want for his son to be upset; Trunks just needed to understand that it was dangerous for him to even be in that room. What could he say to get that frown off of his face...?

Ah ha.

Vegeta crossed him arms. "Well, if that is all I need to say to you, I am going to train."

"You are?" Trunks asked. He seemed disappointed.

"Yes. I would tell you to join me, but you just might have gotten soft while I was away in space; would not even be worth my time." He knew that that was untrue. He seriously doubted his son could have forgot everything he had taught him in the matter of two measly days, but it was always his teasing that got Trunks fired up.

Trunks stomped his foot. "No I didn't!" He then gave his father a bit of a smirk. "I bet I could even hit you in the face like I did that one time."

Damn. Vegeta hated being reminded of that.

He gave his youngest a smirk of his own, as he proceeded to walk down the hall. "You'll just have to prove it, now won't you?"

"I will!" The boy exclaimed with a confidence that rivaled Vegeta's. Vegeta hummed in reply.

"Hey, Dad, if I hit you in the face, will you take me to the park again?"

"No."

"How about if I hit you two times in the face?"

"... I'll think about it. Not that you'll be able to, anyway."

"I will, just you wait, Dad!" Trunks exclaimed. The boy jumped up in the air, smiling and laughing like an obnoxious eight-year old ought to, as he followed his father away from the medical hall.

Vegeta shook his head and turned to face forward, so Trunks would not notice the smile creeping onto his face.

_TBC_

* * *

><p>I apologize for the long wait! It's my first year of high school, and I'm just trying to get myself accustomed to the larger workload while also working on other stories : . I plan on making the chapters longer (this one was over 7,000 words), which also takes up more time to write and then revise. What do you guys think? Are these chapter lengths okay? Should I make them shorter? Review!

I also decided that the official Tenemareen language is going to be Indonesian, and the language that the little boy was speaking is Hmong (no I do not speak either of these languages, so if something is incorrect, blame google translate...)

Indonesian.) _Biarkan aku pergi, anak laki-laki! _= Let me go, boy!

Hmong.) _Pab kuv, pab kuv! Niam, leej niam _= Help me, help me! Mother! Mother!

_Txiv_ = Father


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